The Witchin' Canoe Read online

  “Please, help me, Honoré.”

  He glances over his shoulder—Fredeline is struggling with McGauran, who’s falling into a drunken sleep. Trying not to stare at his chest, he goes to the other end of the couch and begins to tug at McGauran’s boots and wet socks.

  “We need to get these off him, too.” With rough hands, she opens McGauran’s trousers, but when she begins to draw them down his pale, beefy thighs Honoré gasps and turns around again, his face burning. That, he cannot see.

  “What is it, child? Never saw a naked man before? You have a mirror, now don’t you?” Fredeline laughs a little. “Except I bet you’ve never seen red hair like that before.”

  “Fredeline!” he chastises her. “Don’t look so much.”

  “Now, now, don’t be a prude. Help me put these wool trousers on him before he catches his death with his manhood hanging out.”

  He can’t. He can’t do that to McGauran. It would be too much of an invasion. “No, you do it. Please.”

  He hears her fussing for a while and then she sighs and stands, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Fine, he’s decent. Haven’t you seen it before?”

  Mortified, Honoré turns to stare at her with wide eyes.

  “You mean to tell me that you…Oh, my dear child.” She touches his face. Behind her, McGauran is snoring lightly. “You really are an angel.”

  “I would never,” he sputters. “It’s immoral, isn’t it?”

  “Immoral?” She puts her fist to her lips and muffles a laugh. “Honoré, men have done unspeakable things to each other since the dawn of time, but loving each other wasn’t one of them.”

  “But you said I should fight this. Be strong. Win the battle.”

  “What? Oh.” She frowns and looks over at McGauran sleeping under a pile of blankets. “He’s not the battle you need to fight. I meant against something much bigger. Much more perverse and dangerous.”

  “Then what?”

  “Listen to me and listen closely. People, especially those with power, especially rich white men, will tell you what you’re worth, but only you can decide that. Do you understand? Do not let them control you with their panic. Their own fears and insecurities.”

  His reaches for her hands, so dark against his. He loves her hands. They’ve fed him and soothed him. “Thank you…Thank you so much.”

  She casts McGauran a caring look. “This one sure has a fire burning inside him. You can see it right there in his hair. And he’s always treated me with respect. He’s a good man. An open heart, like you, but he’s sick with love for you.”

  “And I for him.”

  “Yes, I know.” She squeezes his arm. “I know.”

  “I want to stay in this room with him for a few hours. But how can I?”

  “Hm, well, I’ll tell Bernard you went out to get fitted for a new suit.”

  “In this storm? He wouldn’t believe you and he’d send Durocher and the carriage after me.” Honoré thinks fast. “Tell him that I’m working—writing—in my bedroom and I’m not to be disturbed until I come out with a new poem. He’s been worried about my work, so that will do.”

  “Fine, and I’ll bring some food for you later.”

  “Why are you doing this? You could get into a lot of trouble with my uncle or Bernard.”

  She taps his cheek. “I suppose it feels good to break their rules.”

  “And your aunt? Are you still thinking of going to her?”

  Fredeline stops in the door and gives him an affectionate smile. “Honoré, my time here is coming to an end, and so is yours.” She gestures to McGauran. “Soon, you’ll follow him.”

  “How do you know?”

  She scoffs. “That man is going to take you for a ride, all the way across the moon and back.”

  “You see that for us?”

  “Yes, and more.”

  After Fredeline has left, Honoré stands above McGauran and gazes down at his face. Asleep, McGauran seems younger and helpless. Feeling protective of him for the first time, Honoré pulls up a chair and sits, keeping vigil over him.

  Yes, he’ll follow McGauran, wherever he goes.

  But then after a while, he too feels watched. The air in the room is suddenly chilled. There’s a vacuum around him. His mind reels from the physical emptiness it seems to create. He shivers and the hairs on his neck rise. Terrified, he keeps his gaze fastened to McGauran’s resting face. No, he won’t be made to look away. Because he knows that if he turns his eyes to the window, he’ll see the black dog watching him. He knows it.

  How much time does he have before the madness steals his lucidity away?

  Chapter 15: Cleansing the Stain

  Inside the wood-paneled room, McGauran stares at his reflection in the wide, bronze-framed mirror hanging above the porcelain wash basin. His dark eyes stare back at him, troubled, but clear. He bends and rinses his face again, and then pats it dry with the soft embroidered linen towel. He looks around the strange room. Where can he deposit this? He leaves the towel on the edge of the basin.

  He really made a mess of his life today. After that talk with Widow Leary in the morning, he left the house without having any food and walked to the docks in the heat. It didn’t take but a few hours before he was fighting with his boss and another before he was fired. He spent the afternoon at the tavern, doing exactly what he despises in other weak men: drinking and whining about the injustices in the quarter.

  When he stepped out of Joe Beef’s, he was nearly as gruff and wild as that bear Joe keeps in his tavern basement to maintain the peace. He doesn’t remember much of the rest. Only walking in the downpour, raging against his fate.

  He woke up a few minutes ago. On a couch. In these wool trousers. And the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Honoré sitting in a chair. His sweet and gentle guardian gazing lovingly at him. What did he do to deserve such devotion from a man as fine as Honoré?

  He can’t understand it, but he could never refuse it, either. Quietly, McGauran opens the door and looks out. “Can I come out?” he whispers.

  Honoré nods and checks the hall. “Yes, yes, but hurry and be quiet.”

  They file down the hall, walking fast and silently, and enter the back room again. It’s full of outdated furniture and discarded gas lamps. The room is small and cluttered but he’s alone with Honoré and that’s close enough to paradise.

  “Are you feeling better?” Honoré shuts the door and leans back against it. His coat has a pale blue sheen that catches his eyes.

  McGauran runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “Yes…thank you.” He looks down at himself. “But, um, who—”

  “Oh…Fredeline. It was Fredeline.” Honoré glances at the window. He seems a little anxious or even frazzled.

  “What’s wrong?” He turns to look at the window. A tree branch scratches the glass, sounding like nails against the pane. “Did you see something when I was asleep?”

  “Don’t look out there.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know…just don’t look.”

  “Do you want me to pull the curtains shut?” He goes to the window and draws the red velvet curtains together. “Is that better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Honoré is still fidgeting by the door.

  McGauran walks up to him and presses his hand over Honoré’s heart. He can feel it beating fast. “What did you see? Tell me.”

  “Nothing…but I felt watched. Something was out there, I know it.” Honoré leans his forehead against his chest. “Where were you all this time, McGauran? I was so lonely and worried. I went to inquire at the jail and I went to—”

  “You went to jail?” He pulls Honoré into his arms, squeezing him. Their bodies fit so well together. “No, no, no, you don’t go to jail, all right? Never. Ever.”

  Against him, Honoré chuckles. “I can handle myself.”

  “I know, but you’re too precious to me.” He slips his fingers into Honoré’s black hair and raises his face to his. “I was hid
ing. Afraid, I guess.”

  “Of what? The priest? The dog? Did you see the dog?”

  The fight is gone from him. He can’t hide or deny himself anymore. “I was afraid…I was afraid of this, Honoré.” He bends his mouth to Honoré’s lips and speaks the next words against them. “Of myself. Of how much I crave you.” He tangles his fingers into Honoré’s hair, kissing him harder and deeper than he’s ever had the courage to before, even tasting Honoré’s tongue. Their kiss makes him shiver and quiver, and soon the blood is pumping fast through his veins. When Honoré makes a sound, a little moan, McGauran clutches the flaps of Honoré’s coat, fighting with himself. Can he touch him? Caress him? He hears Honoré’s labored breath, and a glance down tells him Honoré is on the edge of passion, too. Staring into the pool of his gray-blue eyes, McGauran moves his hand over Honoré’s chest, and then slowly, carefully, slides it between his thighs. Immediately, Honoré presses his face into his shoulder, his lips grazing McGauran’s neck.

  “I won’t hurt you,” McGauran whispers, feeling Honoré’s trepidation and the pulse of his need under his hand. Won’t open Honoré’s pants. Won’t touch his skin. He’ll only stroke him over the black linen of his trousers. Against him, Honoré isn’t moving. He seems to be suspended, waiting, anticipating. McGauran kisses his ear, breathing into it, and the touch makes Honoré moan again. His pale cheeks darken as pleasure clouds his gaze. They stare at each other, lips almost touching, and McGauran moves his hand faster, a little harder, and then it happens too quickly—Honoré tenses like a stretched bow against the door. Shuddering, he closes his eyes and sighs out a few French words. On the cusp of losing control, McGauran presses his hand against the wet spot growing on Honoré’s pants, leaning his forehead against his, hoping to reign himself in. His heart rings inside his ears.

  Lord, give me the strength not to beg for more.

  After a moment, Honoré looks up at him with regret in his eyes. “Oh, I tempted you. It’s my fault. I should have been stronger. I should have slapped you or walked out or—”

  “No, no, look at me.” He raises Honoré’s troubled face to his. “It was ordained.”

  “Yes…but by whose will?” Honoré gazes away at the window.

  He sighs, drawing Honoré close to him again, resting his chin in his hair. “I don’t know if I care anymore,” he says, after a while.

  “I do, McGauran. Your soul belongs to mine. I would never send it into perdition. This is my fault. I made you weak, as Bernard warned me.”

  He tenses. “You want this to stop then? For me not to come back?”

  “No.” Honoré grabs his waistcoat and tugs him closer. “Stay.”

  “I wish you could understand.”

  “I do.”

  “No, listen.” McGauran sighs and presses his mouth to Honoré’s ear. “Everything you think is wrong with you, everything you think you should hide from the world…saves me.”

  Later that night, when he steps out of the Latendresse home, McGauran finds the night as clear as his heart.

  Chapter 16: Gédéon Leaves for Porcupine Country

  Early on Wednesday morning, Honoré stretches under his sheet and opens his eyes to find his bedroom flooded with sunlight. Beneath the window, people are chatting in the carré. He squints at the Empire Portico clock in the corner of his room. It’s nearly ten. Usually, Bernard insists he be fresh, clean-shaven, and dressed by nine. Curious to know why he’s been granted this lazy morning, he sits up and swings his legs around the bed, slipping his feet into his black velvet embroidered house shoes.

  Already, he’s thinking of McGauran. They’ve been seeing each other every evening since the storm. They meet at the side door of the house, and then go for long walks, usually in the old city. McGauran loves to visit the Beauchemin Librairie and in the last weeks, Honoré has bought him many books. The last one he purchased for him, a Lamartine poetry collection, McGauran carries everywhere. His French is improving every day. He’s even begun to curse in French!

  McGauran seeks to know himself, to push himself, to escape the confines of his status and define success in his own way. Every time they’re together, the tie between them thickens, and it’s becoming impossible for him to untangle his life from McGauran’s.

  The things they’ve done to each other in that back room would make Eros himself blush. Yes, McGauran is his very own Dionysus and he’ll follow him into the wild. Free, perhaps even mad, just for a taste of his exhilarating wine.

  A little flustered, Honoré catches his reflection in the vanity mirror. Stretching, he watches the young man in the looking glass. He was a portrait before McGauran looked at him. An elegant, but ever so plain black and white Rubens. Now he’s become a sculpture, a David—an object of desire.

  He hears Durocher’s voice in the street and goes to his window to peek down. The coach is there and Bernard is helping Durocher load trunks into the carriage. So then, it’s true. His uncle is leaving without him. Was he even going to say goodbye?

  Quickly, he throws on a plain white shirt, doesn’t bother with a coat, and hurries out of his room, into the bright hall. Passing his father’s bedroom, he looks in—Maggie and Sister Augustine are dressing him. His heart pinches at the sight of his father, who seems paler and thinner lately.

  Honoré climbs down to the first landing, just in time to see his uncle stepping through the open front door. He was so adamant about convincing his uncle to go to Cacouna without him, and now he feels abandoned. He pauses in the hall, a few steps from the door. “Weren’t you even going to say goodbye to me?”

  Gédéon slips his hat off and hangs it on the door handle. He opens his arms. “Come here.”

  Without hesitation, he goes to Gédéon, and into his strong arms as he used to do when he was a child. “Are you angry with me, Uncle? Have I disappointed you?”

  “I wish you’d mind me and keep away from that Irishman.”

  “But why?”

  Gédéon releases him, puts his hat on, and gives him a steely look from under its brim. “I’ll be back by the end of summer. Until then, I want you to begin reading the books I’ve asked you to read and look into our contracts. You’ve done enough roaming around the city in the last weeks. You need to know who our suppliers, customers, and competitors are. And don’t sneak away with that McGauran anymore or I’ll have to deny him the job.”

  “Yes…fine.” Honoré lies easily, feeling a bit exposed and foolish in his trousers and shirtsleeves. Then behind his uncle, he sees Bernard coming up to the front door and knows he must insist now or lose this chance at elucidating the mystery. “Please.” He grabs Gédéon’s gloved hands. “Tell me what’s happening? What this talk of an occultist is all about.”

  Gédéon seems to stiffen. “I—I can’t. Besides, you wouldn’t even believe me.”

  Last night, Honoré asked Maggie about the rumors again. He’s always known his uncle was capable of anything to get his way. But to try and outwit the Devil? Can it be true? Can evil make a canoe fly through the sky? He raises his chin. “Did you make a pact with a demon? So you could stop the girl you loved from marrying another man on New Year’s Day?”

  And who was this girl?

  “How do the servants even suspect these things?” Gédéon asks, almost to himself it seems.

  “Maggie heard from someone at church. Father Hayes’ church. In Saint-Anne’s parish.”

  His uncle’s eyes grow wide. “Hayes? Oh, that son of bitch.”

  “You know him? He knows you?”

  “Gédéon, everything is ready for your departure,” Bernard says, hastily walking through the door. His eyes are red-rimmed as though he’s been up all night. “Please send a telegram as soon as you’re settled. I don’t understand why you insist on not having any help. The villa is bound to be in a mess and in need of—” He stops. Gives Honoré a look. “But my boy, where’s your coat? And the door is open. Do you want the whole neighborhood talking?”

  “I’m not naked,” he spu
tters. But he moves away from the door, hiding a little. “What do people care about my bare forearms?”

  Gédéon presses Bernard’s shoulder. “What I need is for you to watch over Honoré and make sure that my affairs run smoothly while I’m away.”

  “Is Countess Stephens going to be with you?” Honoré suddenly remembers the woman. His uncle hasn’t mentioned his mistress lately.

  Gédéon glances at Bernard and back at him. “She’s taken ill. Women’s troubles, I suppose.”

  “Then you’re going to be alone? You’ve broken your friendship with her? Or will you have people visiting?”

  “Stop pestering your uncle. Durocher is waiting.” Bernard ushers Gédéon out the door. “I still think it’s a terrible idea,” he says very quietly and into Gédéon’s ear.

  Honoré won’t let the matter go until he gets a clear answer from them. He stomps his foot. “Did you or did you not ride this enchanted canoe from the logging camps to Montreal on New Year’s Eve?”

  “Bernard, watch over him while I’m gone. You know what I mean.” Gédéon hurriedly steps out and down to the street before Honoré can stop him. At the carriage, he looks back at him. “I’ll make this right and then I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

  “No, wait!” Honoré shouts, not caring about the neighbors or how he’s dressed. He has a terrible premonition. What if he doesn’t see his uncle again? He runs down to the carriage. “I’ve changed my mind!”

  “Honoré. Honoré.” Gédéon takes his face inside his gloved hands. “I’ll come back. I swear to you. I’ll come back. I won’t abandon you.” He embraces him again, tighter than ever. “I love you more than anything in the world, don’t you see? And I owe it to your mother to keep you safe.”

  “You loved her, didn’t you?”

  Gédéon sighs and a shadow moves across his eyes.

  Before he can add anything else, Bernard gently tugs on his arm. “Honoré…people are watching.”